


Like I'm Gonna Lose You

by HelldiverOfLykos, poechild



Series: Johnlock RPs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, oh look another Reichanbach return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelldiverOfLykos/pseuds/HelldiverOfLykos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poechild/pseuds/poechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Sherlock jumped. John has been falling apart ever since. And when the anniversary of Sheroock's death comes, it gets even worse.</p>
<p>But what happens when a dead man appears in Baker Street?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I'm Gonna Lose You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So we did another RP, and it turned out _so nicely_ , so we decided to post it again! Very sorry about the angst. My fault.
> 
> It's a bit messy in the middle, but it's so angsty I don't really care.
> 
> We apologize in advace for any broken hearts.
> 
> ~Willa
> 
>  
> 
> I'm gonna love you  
> Like I'm gonna lose you,  
> I'm gonna hold you like I'm saying goodbye,  
> Wherever we're standing,  
> I won't take you for granted,  
> 'Cuz you'll never know when we'll run out of time...
> 
> ~Meghan Trainor (Like I'm Gonna Lose You)

One year. It's been one year since Moriarty ruined everything John had lived his life for. One year since Sherlock jumped. One year since John's heart had been broken like it had never been before.

In that one year, rumours have spread like wildfire, hissing what John has convinced himself are lies, shaming the name he has come to respect and _love._

If watching Sherlock jump is to be described as the completely inadequate word 'difficult', then trying and failing to live without him is the most Herculean effort he has ever experienced. Trying to live through the reporters camping on his doorstep and stalking him in the streets, venturing to dig up more dirt with which to smear that beautiful name with is torture. But John trudges through each day with dogged determination, hoping that somehow, if he persists long enough, Sherlock will come home to him and clear his own name, and pick John's pieces up off the floor.

He knows that day will never come. But he holds on, anyway.

John still goes to his therapist. Ella. It's the only thing keeping him from breaking apart and being smashed into dust to be blown away in the wind of his misery.

Once a week, he drags himself from his bed, dresses himself, and makes himself presentable.

It doesn't help. Not really. It seems there's a small portion of his thoughts are still intact, concerned enough to poke and prod at John to tell him to _get out of the flat, stop moping in your own self pity; it's been a year, get a hold of yourself. You've been to war, Watson. You've had young men die under your hands, **by** your hands, those you couldn't save. What makes one more lost life among the lot?_

But Sherlock. Oh, _Sherlock_. He was surreal. The most extraordinary person John has ever met.

Sherlock was brilliant and beautiful, clever and made for John in every way. Just as John was made for him.

But blood still stains John's dreams, high rooftops and still-warm skin beneath his hand, the lack of a pulse even more prominent in its absence. John's own heart wildly beats, threatening to escape from the cage of his ribs, throbbing in such excess that it seemed to want to share a bit of itself with the dead man on the ground.

So every Wednesday, John leaves the suffocating atmosphere of his home, sits in silence with a woman whom he doesn't care much for, and waits.

Waits because he knows. He knows that if anyone could cheat Death, come back from the Unknown and live, miraculously, to tell the tale, it would be Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, the man who would not accept an unsolvable problem, who hoarded knowledge and words; it would not be beyond him to simply die in order to experience it.

He tries to explain to Ella. He really does. But she doesn't understand just how brilliant Sherlock was. She insists on more sessions and medical intervention. John declines.

He eats little. He barely leaves the flat. He refuses to see anyone. Distantly, he's aware that his actions are starting to mimic Sherlock's. But it doesn't help.

Then his limp returns. He wakes up one morning with a dull ache in his leg and realises what's happening. He knows why.

Sherlock.

He falls even further, taking to alcohol to seek the unsatisfying numbness that his sister once sought. Harry even had to drag him back from a pub once.

_How the tables have turned,_ he thinks sadly, the next morning, reading the countless texts and missed calls on his mobile asking where he was and why he wouldn't pick up his phone. All were from Lestrade.

He's been fussing over John, together with everyone else whom he met through his connection with Sherlock, in the months after Sherlock's passing. They only make things worse.

With every friendly face he sees, he is reminded of the one year he had with the most amazing man he had ever known. He is reminded of the cases they had solved together, of the little things he loved about him.

It definitely doesn't help at all.

_They're just trying to help_ , the little voice says. _They worry. You're destroying yourself._

It doesn't matter. Life without Sherlock is bleak and grey.

John would think that after a year he would accustom to the absence of his friend. No such thing occurred. John continues to turn towards a Sherlock who isn't there, start yelling at him when he wasn't the one who left the mug by the sink instead of putting it in the dish washer.

It's not healthy, he knows. And that's why he forces himself to at least arrive at a pub before he drinks himself into oblivion in favor of poisoning himself by his lonesome. At least while in public, he talks, socializes, and there's a stranger to tell him he's had too much.

John feels like he's two people. He is aware of his destructive habits and makes feeble attempts to correct them. And yet, he formulates excuses for himself to abandon those endeavors. It's confusing and exhausting.

Things get even worse on the anniversary of Sherlock's death. He wakes up with a horrible ache in his chest that's infinitely worse than the one in his leg. He knows why, of course. And he wants it to stop.

His thoughts immediately fly to the little wooden box he once found while cleaning out Sherlock's room. Inside were two small glass vials and a hypodermic syringe. The lable on the bottles: Morphine.

_Should he?_ Yes, he knows he really shouldn't be even thinking of doing this, but... it's all too much for him. He wants everything to go away. He wants _just one_ night of uninterrupted sleep.

No. He wants Sherlock back.

But he knows that even for some inexplicable way Sherlock were to come to him in that moment, he would not want John resorting to self medication in order to appease the pain.

John gazes at the small oaken box now in his trembling hands, the lid still closed, and wills himself to not move from his spot and to keep the box closed.

Instead, he takes the box in his hands, moves to the kitchen that is now clear of experiments and body parts and contaminations, the room eerily empty.

He quickly flips it open, head turned away so he won't even see the needles and the bottles that accompany them. He feels around with his hands, carefully maneuvering over the sharp sting of the needles.

His hands grasp around one bottle. John brings it into his line of vision. Twisting the top open, he pours the temptation down the drain, ensuring that he won't succumb to the need in the future. He repeats the motion with the last bottle of morphine.

The bottles are tossed into the bin. He throws the box hiding the prick of needles into Sherlock's bedroom, the one place he knows he will never venture again.

"John."

It's barely a whisper, but John's heart skips a beat.

_That voice._ It can't be. It can't.

He closes his eyes tightly, hoping to shake it off. Maybe it was just his imagination. Maybe he was just hearing things now.

But the voice calls to him again, a little louder than before.

"John."

He turns around slowly to face the tall, lean figure he knows the voice belongs to. _  
_

"I thought you died," he says shakily. He must be hallucinating now. _He must be._

John takes a shaky breath. "You're dead. You're dead. I saw you die. I watched you jump right in front of me. You're not here." He hears himself rasp out the words, denying the impossible existence of a dead man standing upright in his sitting room.

_I've completely gone round the bend,_ John thinks. Finally, after a year of nothingness and depression, he has broken.

John turns his head back around, facing away from the phantom and into its owners bedroom, refusing to meet its eyes, afraid to be captured in its gaze.

" _John_ ," it says again, insistently, closer now, mere feet away from his turned back.

" _Don't touch me,_ " John demands, his entire body tensing, his eyes closed and fists clenched. He doesn't want the visual input of touch, those elegant hands brushing his arm, shoulder, neck, jaw, sliding back into his hair, without the confirmation of physical sensation, ensuring his lunacy. Plausible deniability in its greatest form. If he doesn't see it touch him, he cannot know that he doesn't feel it.

He hadn't heard footsteps. If the imitation of Sherlock were flesh and bone, then John would have heard it approach.

But then again, Sherlock has always had an uncanny ability of slinking along like a cat, agile and swift footed.

Shaking the thought away, John speaks into the empty bedroom. "When I turn around, you are going to be gone and away. You will not return and will not burden me with your presence." He pauses, his ear turned toward the no-doubt empty hall.

"You want me to leave?" the voice whispers.

John shakes his head sadly. "I want to believe you're really here. I really do. But I _saw_ you on the pavement. I checked your pulse, dammit! But you're gone. I have to accept that."

He hears a choked noise behind him. "Oh, _John._ "

_It can't be. It just can't._

And th3' he feels a hand on his shoulder. The warmth, the pressure, the long, slim fingers. And he knows.

John freezes on the spot, his breath caught in his chest. He stays that way for a long moment, forgetting to breath until the somehow solid phantom says to him, "Breathe, John."

John gulps in the stale air. He doesn't turn to look. The hand is still warm and steady on his shoulder, the only point of contact tethering him to reality.

_He's alive, he's alive, he's alive._

John chokes out a sob, his hand coming up to cover his mouth and stifle the embarrassing noise. Sherlock detests displays of sentiment. And John will do whatever he can to please Sherlock and make the world as comforting to him as possible.

Suddenly, John's relief and joy turns to anger and resentment.

How _dare_ he. How dare he force John through the pain and suffering his death, his "suicide" caused.

" _Why would you do this to me?_ "

"I-I'm sorry?"

Finally, John rotates his body until he faces Sherlock. The utter thinness of him, the pallor, his physiognomy shadowed and sharp, the sallowness to his cheeks, shocks John's anger into wisps of smoke.

"Oh my god, what's happened to you?" John stares in horror. Sherlock is sick, obviously sick. They can talk about the wrongness of Sherlock's actions at a later date, John needs to bring Sherlock to hospital _now_.

"John, my most sincere apologies-"

"No, don't." John puts up a hand to stop Sherlock's speech, forcing down his renewed anger. "We'll talk later. We're going to hospital now." He forcible pouts his finger at Sherlock when he opens his mouth to retaliate. " _No_ arguing."

John takes a hold of Sherlock's arm to drag him to the door.

He's real, physically here. John can touch and feel him, warm under his hand. His arm is more defined with muscles, he observes, than the last time John saw him. What has he been doing?

"What are they going to do when they find out they're helping a man who's supposedly dead, John? They're bound to recognize me, it was all over the news."

John stops in his tracks. Something's wrong here.

"Why are you so concerned if people will recognize you or not? There's a reason you came back, and I'm willing to bet my right hand it's not because you miss Mrs. Hudson's bacon."

Sherlock smiles sadly.

_Oh, no. Nonono._

"I came to say goodbye, John," he chokes out.

John's heart drops into his shoes. He's going to lose Sherlock again.

"W-why?"

"Moriarty's-"

"No, I'm not asking why you're leaving. I'm asking why you have to do this to me _all over again._ I was getting _better_ , Sherlock." John cries. "I'm still horrible, depressingly horrible, but yesterday was better than the days and weeks after your dying. And you're trying to put me back to square one of my grief?!"

John searches Sherlock's face, looking for any hint of remorse or regret. His countenance is filled with emotion: hurt, sadness, joy.

"Why do you want to hurt me?" John all but sobs, his shoulders hunched and his hands now clutching at Sherlock's coat.

John feels warmth surround him and tries to push Sherlock away as he wraps his arms around him.

"I don't want to hurt you, John. That's that last thing I would ever want to do to you. But if I don't go, people will get hurt. _You_ will get hurt."

John can see the pain in Sherlock's eyes. He can feel Sherlock's bony arms through his coat. He can see the tears in Sherlock's eyes. He doesn't want to leave.

"Why do you suddenly care so much?" John asks. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't have _feelings._ "

"I made an exception for you, John," Sherlock whispers. And it all becomes clear.

John doesn't move; he just stays in the warm embrace of Sherlock's arms. His head fits perfectly where Sherlock's neck and shoulder meet, like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece that has been lost for years.

Sighing, John pulls away and grasps Sherlock's arm, leading him to the bathroom. "If you won't go to the hospital then at least let me fix you up."

Sherlock follows without complaint.

"Are you in any pain?" John asks as Sherlock's sits in the closed lid of the toilet seat.

"No."

"Liar."

"You disposed of the morphine, I didn't want to say yes when it couldn't be fixed."

"Shush."

"John," Sherlock says softly, though it sounds so very _loud_ in the confined space of the bathroom.

John looks up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "What?"

Sherlock reaches out oh-so-slowly and touches John's cheekbone. He traces the lines in his face and the contours of his cheeks. John lets him.

As Sherlock memorized John's face, John does the same to his. He silently takes in his blue-green-grey eyes that never seem to decide what color they want to be, those frankly ridiculous cheekbones of his, the dark curls that refuse to be tamed. He memorizes the exact shade of his pale skin and the curve of his lips.

He doesn't stop until he's sure he knows Sherlock by heart. If he does indeed leave once more, then this memory might be the very last one he'll have of that fantastic, brilliant, _amazing_ man. So John makes the best of it.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so much. I've been wishing for an entire year to say that to you, and now that I get the chance, you're telling me you're leaving again." His voice cracks on those last few words. So close and yet so far.

Keeping eye contact, John hears Sherlock's intake of breath. His hand slides down to John's neck, the caress warm and comforting.

"John..."

Sherlock's eyes flick down towards John's mouth.

"May I?" John asks, slightly breathless and eyes hooded.

Sherlock gives a small nod, then minutely leans forward till their foreheads touch.

Placing his hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders- thin, much too thin- John moves upwards, tentatively touching his lips with Sherlock's.

John feels a puff of air against his lips as Sherlock sighs. Feeling brave, John applies a bit more pressure, and Sherlock melts.

The kiss is soft and gentle, exactly how a first kiss should be, neither of them asking for too much, lest the moment be broken. But at the same time, it feels sad and desperate, like if they finally do this, their destiny might change. It's a wild grab at the hope that if they love each other enough, Sherlock might be convinced to stay.

"You are never leaving me again, Sherlock Holmes," John breathes as he pulls away the shortest distance, close enough that his lips still brush against Sherlock's. "And don't tell me that you have to leave. You're a genius, you can figure something out. Call Mycroft. He can fix this. He can fix _everything_. He's going to bring you back to life, we're going to feed you up and get you healthy again, and you will stay."

"It isn't that simple, John," Sherlock replies, eyes scrunched closed and breathing hard. His heart feels like it wants to tear free from his chest.

"Pretend it is," John pleads. "Pretend that it is that simple. Do you _want_ to leave again? If you didn't want to and you could, would you still?" John searches Sherlock's face. "Open your eyes for me, love."

Sherlock opens his eyes but doesn't look at John, instead gazing down at his hands now clasped in his lap. "No. No, I don't want to go," he whispers.

"Then we'll figure something out." And John places a kiss into Sherlock's forehead, brushing aside the curls. "We'll have what we want."

"John, you could die if I don't go. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and everyone else as well. Even Mycroft isn't invincible," Sherlock says softly as he slips his hand into John's.

"There has to be a way, Sherlock.  We'll fix something up."

Sherlock nods mutely, continuing to stare at their joined hands.

"Just me being here is putting you in danger. I shouldn't have come, but I needed to see you at least one more time," Sherlock admits as his eyes finally rise to meet John's. "I wasn't thinking. I didn't thinking that your own grief would begin anew. I disregarded the fact that my presence here is a detriment to your safety. In all honesty, I should have foreseen this, and I should have never come." Sherlock stops John with a finger to his lips before John could interject. "But I do not regret it," he finishes.

John's breath ghosts over his hand. "Oh, Sherlock..."

They stare at each other for a time. It could be minutes, but it feels like hours by the time they finish drinking in the other's appearance for the second time in as many minutes.

After tearing his gaze away, John eventually says, "Let's get you fixed up. You some fluids in you. And food. You look far too skinny, and you weren't even that big to begin with. What do you think you can stomach?" John doesn't fret on the fact that Sherlock hasn't said those three magical words after John's own declaration. He doesn't need to. Sherlock's actions speak the words far better than any vocalization could.

Pausing, Sherlock says, "I think maybe soup and crackers is everything I can handle."

John doesn't question what Sherlock did during his time Away. Nothing could degrade Sherlock Holmes into the man John sees before him, but apparently there is. And whatever, or _who_ ever, has happened, John knows that the experience can only be spoken after some time, and never comes with force.

"I'll see what I have," John says as he pats Sherlock's knee and makes his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock plops himself into his old chair as John opens a cabinet and retrieves a can of soup left over from when he came down with a cold a few weeks ago.

He almost drops it when he turns around and sees Sherlock in that very same spot where he _should have been_ so many times in the past year. He had missed Sherlock, John realises, much, much more than he thought he had.

He had missed the crazy experiments in the kitchen, the body parts in the fridge, the adrenalin-fueled chases through the streets of London, the many arguments about anything and everything, and the nights they never spoke of, when nightmares haunted John's sleep. Until the soft strains of Bach, perhaps, floated through the floor and soothed him to sleep.

John shook himself out of his thoughts and turned back to the stove and the saucepan of soup in front of him, but couldn't resist glancing back one more time to look at Sherlock. He was curled up in his chair as he always had, surveying the room and its changes.

John didn't change much. He had just cleared the kitchen table and straightened the papers around Sherlock's desk. He hadn't dared to change anything else.

Sherlock wonders where his microscope is. It's not in its customary spot on the kitchen table, nor anywhere where Sherlock can see. He presumes it's in one of the many boxes he glimpsed that were in his old room, _his_ room.

The wallpaper is till torn from where Sherlock shot bullets into the wall one insufferable afternoon out of boredom. The yellow face spray painted there smiles tauntingly at him. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock notices even more holes in the face than what he put there. Squinting, he sees that the depression follows a downward curve, convexing in an upward curve in the middle overtop the imitation smile.

John shot it. Into a frown. Now Sherlock wonders where John's gun has gone to. He makes a mental note to search for it later.

Soon, John comes over with two mugs of soup and a plate of crackers. He sets the mugs and plate on the table and takes his usual seat across from Sherlock. He closes his eyes and sighs. He wants to be frozen in this moment forever, just him and Sherlock, the way it always was. Just the way it should always be.

Sherlock reaches over to place a hand on his thigh. "John."

"You don't know what you did to me when you left."

"Mycroft told me. I wish I could have saved you the hearbreak, but it would have cost your life. I know I sound selfish, but I would rather have the chance to love you again and break your heart than spare you the hurt and lose you forever." Sherlock directs his gaze at the floor, afraid to meet John's eyes.

John smiles sadly and cups Sherlock's face in his hand, tilting his head back up.

"I would rather live and have you put me back together after breaking me," he whispers, planting a kiss on top of Sherlock's dark curls.

"Now eat your soup, before it gets cold," John says with a jerk of his head towards Sherlock's bowl of untouched soup. He pats Sherlock's cheek with the hand still cupped there. "We need to build up your strength."

Nodding, Sherlock retreats back into his seat. He picks up the spoon and dips it into the hot liquid, blowing on it to cool it down. The warmth soothes his throat that he didn't even know was sore, and he sighs at the relief.

"Good then?" John asks with a smile.

"Always, John," Sherlock replies.

They eat in silence save for small slurping and the clinking of silverware. When each of their bowls are nearly empty and all that remains is thin liquid that refuses to take refuge on a spoon, John takes their dishes to the kitchen and doesn't remark upon how Sherlock actually finished a meal for once in his life.

"So, where have you been all this time? And how the hell did you manage to fake your death?" John asks when he finally returns.

"I've been dismantling Moriarty's criminal network. I've had to travel all over the world, gathering intel and taking down key leaders in each area of his dealings. As for how I faked my death," Sherlock smiles darkly, "that's a story for another day."

John doesn't like how clinical Sherlock is talking. The physical consequences to Sherlock are obvious; it's be impossible to take down an entire web of criminals without harm to the dismantler. What happened to Sherlock out there? Something too horrid that even the unflappable Sherlock Holmes cannot talk about.

Rage for anyone who laid even one _finger_ on Sherlock with intent to harm roars through John. Why wasn't he there? Why wasn't John there to protect Sherlock? John has taken it upon himself to be Sherlock's back-up since Sherlock has no sense of self-preservation. _He should have been there_.

"Come here," John says, his words coming out short and angry.

"...Sorry?" Sherlock asks, shrinking back into his chair at John's harsh tone.

"I'm not angry at you," John explains. He stands and opens his arms. " _Come here_."

Sherlock stands and cautiously makes his way to him. John wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock, trying to blink away tears. Sherlock stands frozen for a split second before returning the embrace, his fingers splaying across John's back.

"Promise me you won't leave me," John whispers brokenly.

Sherlock suddenly finds tears pricking his eyelids, and has to bite his lip to keep a small sob from escaping.

"I'll stay, John. I promise."

"Don't lie to me."

Sherlock's arms tighten around John. "I'll be here. I'm staying." He lays a gentle kiss to John's hair, relishing the tickle on his lips.

John relaxes a bit in Sherlock's arms and lets out a tiny sigh. Sherlock leads them both to the sofa and lies down, beckoning for John to lie with him. John smiles and curls up against Sherlock's side with his head on his chest, his back to the room.

He closes his eyes as an arm drapes across his shoulders and a hand cards through his hair.

"Sleep, John. I'll be here when you wake."

The steady sound of Sherlock's heart beating under his ear lulls him into the most peaceful sleep he's had in ages.

***

When he wakes, he has no idea how much time has passed. All he knows it that the arms and warmth encircling him have gone.

Sherlock is gone.

John's heart shatters again. Tears blur his vision as the familiar emptiness fills his chest once more.

_He's gone. He's left me. He promised._

John's hand flops onto the sofa cushions next to him and brushes soft fabric. He looks down and sees a dark blue scarf lying next to him. He picks it up and presses it to his face, breathing Sherlock's scent deep into his lungs.

Something pokes him in the face. He shakes out the scarf and finds a small card in the folds of the fabric.

_John,_

I'm so sorry. I know you'll be upset at me, but I vowed to keep you safe. I'm not going to break that vow any time soon. I'm going to protect you with my life. I'm going to protect you with all my heart.

Love,

Sherlock

A small tear stain blurs the familiar signature scrawled across the bottom of the card. The writing is wobbly, as if the author's hands had been shaking during the penning of this tiny epistle.

But it's so much more than a goodbye note. It's a pledge of love. Love of the most beautiful kind. The kind that gives without asking for anything in return. The kind that breaks hearts, but gives them new life at the same time.

_Please be careful, Sherlock. I'm waiting for you._

**Author's Note:**

> Every time you have to go,  
> I don't think you even know,  
> It's like a dagger in my heart.  
> Every time you have to leave,  
> Can't believe it cuts so deep,  
> It's like a dagger in my heart.
> 
> ~The Wanted (Dagger)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [poechild's tumblr](http://softlygasping.tumblr.com/)  
> [HelldiverOfLykos's tumblr](http://willasherlyscottholmes.tumblr.com/)


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